


Lacemaking

by Zoya1416



Series: THE PATRICIAN'S BABY [6]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/M, Mischief, Parenting skills tested again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 00:15:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1622135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya1416/pseuds/Zoya1416
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sammie Vimes is ten. Robbie Vetinari is nine. They've innocently explored the Palace dungeons and learned a secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lacemaking

**Author's Note:**

> Timing on this piece is about a year before the previous one. (and if I could figure out how to rearrange them I would.)
> 
> It's all Pratchett except Robbie, who's turning out to be a real handful.

“Again? You've lost track of my son again?” Vetinari's mild voice was as cold as an icicle covered dagger.

“Not lost, your lordship,” said the clerk, sweating. “You know he knows all the secret passages, and he was running between them. He's been all over the Palace in the last eight years and”—

“Spare me your excuses. Where exactly did you lose him?”

“He was in the dungeons. But they're all cleaned out and dry, nothing at all is in them. We saw him around one corner, but he was gone by the time we got to the other end. And he didn't get out that staircase because he would have been seen by our man coming down that way.”

“This was the first floor? Or the under basement?”

“The under basement. There's not much light”—

“I know exactly where he is, and he's not in any danger. It's the third cell from the left, with all the locks. Go get him out of there.”

Two hours later he finished his paperwork, and thought. Drumknott had informed him that there had been no progress.

“Please go inform the Duke and Duchess that Sammie is eating dinner with us,” he told the secretary. “And he might spend the night.”

Drumknott bowed. “I sent a runner to the house when we first got the report.”

Vetinari went down to the dungeons, reflecting the time he'd been locked in. He would have sworn that this special cell had been bolted shut long ago. When he arrived, he set a lantern on the floor, and called out, “Robert. You're being naughty. Come out of there. And Sammie also.”

There was no answer and he couldn't heard any relevant whispers. He examined the door. Luckily it was summertime, so that subdued light filtered in even here, from the small windows in the other, open and empty dungeon cells. 

The wall of bars, bolts, iron spikes and hinges still looked as formidable as ever. There were now two very heavy exterior padlocks—but they'd been cut. This would have required the largest shears from the gardener's hut, which would have been missed almost immediately, and he began to wonder how long these hijinks had been planned.

They'd certainly found out that the massive door was a disguise; all the locks and bolts fastened on the inside, protecting the occupants. 

“Fine. Enjoy yourselves. I believe the books are still down here.” Unwisely he was tempted to continue just one more sentence. “You'll get hungry.”

Now there were giggles, and Sammie Vimes' muffled voice sing-songed, “Noooo, we won't.”

The voice was odd, somewhat loopy. What was going on? The last time he'd been in the dungeon was eleven years ago, at the time the great dragon was laying waste to the city.  
How had the children found the cell, recognized the special nature of the bolts and bars, and planned their little excursion? 

On previous occasions, the staff must have found one of the boys at a staircase, assumed the other had squeezed by, while the culprit was left downstairs for a few minutes. Then the process had been reversed, gaining a little bit of time here and there. The cell had held iron rations in a sealed block accessible by a hidden bit of masonry, but the devils must have found it by careful search. He'd never removed the precious metals or small cask of jewels, or the change of clothes. They'd probably made a mess of things and now he was truly irritated.

“Boys. There will be real trouble if you don't come out. And if you have soiled or dirtied anything”—

“No, Dadddyyy”—and Robert NEVER called him 'Daddy'—we didn't get anything dirty. Just a little picnic. We'll come out in a bit, please, sir.”

This placating voice sounded normal, except that it, too, was a little odd, and there was much more giggling.

He realized it now.

“How many bottles of beer do you have in there? Or did you get wine bottles? You are going to be in”—the repetition of a threat did not help. It was time to get them out before he had to send Sam Vimes' son home dead drunk.

He went into the cell next door and bent down low.

“Skrp? Skrp?”

The rats who'd helped him years ago were probably dead by now, although their magical properties might have given them extra time. But with any luck their successors would remember the one who'd advised them on their problems and helped them clear out the cell. Wonse didn't know where to stop, he mused. He'd had rats, snakes, AND scorpions in the cell, and it had been a real mess when he'd been locked in. But backing the rats against the other pests had cleared the way, and then the rats rewarded him by bringing food, cushions, even books, although the selection was baroque.

A large white rat with fancy champagne-colored markings peeked its nose out from a hole. 

“Srecch?” it asked.

“Yes, screekk all.”

The rat nodded its head, and withdrew. Vetinari leaned on the wall facing the cell door, and waited. In a few minutes he heard scratching and tiny patters. There seemed to be quite a few of them. Then there was quite satisfying screaming.

The heavy cell door burst open, and he grabbed each boy by the collar. Dozens of rats dropped from them and ran back to their holes. Robbie and Sammie were wild-eyed at having been overrun by rats. They had many scratches, but only a few bites.

The inebriated boys wavered on their feet, huddling against him, hysterical.

He didn't say a word, but walked them back to the exit stairs.

A short time later, their scratches having been cleaned and dressed, Drumknott lead them back to the Oblong Office. There was an unspoken aura which suggested that any hesitation would result in being yanked along by an ear.

The two boys stopped just inside the door, where three sets of parental glares were turned upon them. Vetinari's voice was rougher than usual, almost growling. 

“Boys. You have caused a great deal of trouble for the clerks who are charged with keeping you safe.”

Robbie opened his mouth.

“Yes, I know, you don't think you need babysitters in the Palace. It is indeed quite well protected. But you've managed to endanger yourselves inside these walls, and harass my staff. We're not going to beat you or starve you (tempting though that is, he thought) but you will pay restitution to those you harmed. For one week you will assist the clerks, bringing them the supplies they need, running any errands they require, waiting on them. You will carry all their copy books and papers. (And I will see to it that reams and reams of paper need to be moved, he told himself silently.)

“The following week you will also help the head gardener, because you stole his tools. He's making a list now. The lawns need to be mowed and trimmed; the flower gardens need snipping and weeding. He will also need you to hand water every morning and evening.”

The boys looked at each other. It was the hottest month of the year, which was what had triggered the investigation of the cool dungeons. Outside all day?—

“You misappropriated the wine and beer, which could have been quite harmful to you--Sir Samuel can explain the hazards of accidents, injuries”—

Sammie interrupted, “But we weren't going to be injured. It was safe inside the cell. We were only having a little party.”

Vimes said icily, “You have no idea how many men I've seen killed because they slipped on loose cobblestones when drunk and struck their heads. You weren't locked in—you could have been up those stone steps any time you wanted to, and pitched over. And I've seen men die from simply drinking more alcohol than the body can hold at one time—early drinkers who don't know when to stop especially die that way—pure alcohol poisoning. You, Sammie, especially need to guard against excess drinking.”

Vetinari continued. “I think for taking the food and drink you will clean in the kitchens for another week.”

The boys were looking dismayed, and Vimes himself thought this was a bit harsh for a bit of revelry, until he caught the look on Vetinari's face. You had to know him well to read him, but Vimes did know him well, and moreover realized that he'd often had the same expression. The Patrician was afraid.

As a parent you simply could never keep up. As soon as you'd mastered the skills needed for one stage, they moved on and tested you again in new ways. By imposing harsh retribution here, the Patrician was hoping to catch up just enough for a breather before the children tried something new.

He spoke up. “Oh, I don't think they need quite that much cleaning. We should probably just pop them back in another cell for a week. They didn't finish the lacemaking book, did they?”

The boys glared at him. Vimes saw Vetinari's lip quirk.

“Well?” Vimes continued. “Cell or mop?”

As they took their miscreant home Sibyl whispered to Sam, “You should have seen what happened when I hid in the barn for an afternoon. I could hear everyone yelling for me and even searching some of the bales in front of me. I was finally caught when I put my hand down on a kitten I'd been playing with, and it yowled. Not only did I have to eat my dinner off the mantle for a week, but I had to pitch hay for the horses and muck out the stables for three.”

She paused in the warm evening air. “ It backfired on my father, though. He had three little swamp dragons which had been dumped on the property the week before, and I fell in love with them.”

“So maybe we can expect one of the boys to become a scullery boy?” said Sam.  
“Or maybe a needle worker.” Sibyl giggled.

**Author's Note:**

> From *Guard, Guards*
> 
> "Since the rats couldn't read the library he'd been able to assemble was a little baroque but he was not a man to ignore fresh knowledge. He found his bookmark in the pages of "Lacemaking Through the Ages," and read a few pages."


End file.
